Chapter Text
Dream has opened the window per Ink’s request, the cold nighttime breeze stinging his cheeks a bright yellow. Ink lightly teases him for it, saying that the gold is hard to look directly at, but in his eyes there’s an affection that he leaves bare and whole for Dream. Dream can hardly look directly at Ink himself, because of it - the way it fills him with the sensation of a fullness after good food and good company makes him sleepily content.
They are riding a train now, having had their afternoon tea and lunch. Just the two of them are in the seats now, Nightmare and Error in bunk beds to rest somewhere else on the train. None of them actually require or can sleep, but Ink’s tireless chatting can irritate Error while he tries to meditate. Dream doesn’t mind staying up to talk to Ink if it will spare the poor man.
“Error’s back has been bothering him more, lately. I hope it is warmer on the farm.” Dream quietly fusses to Ink. “The cold is so bad for his joints. He never talks about it, barely even mentions or complains about the aches, but I know it gets to him even if he can’t seem to feel it. I do worry so much for that bonehead.”
Ink’s chin and cheek rest in the palm of his hand, his elbow propping up his head on the wooden table. There is a cotton tablecloth in deep green padding the metal tea tray sitting comfortably between them, only slightly chiming with the rhythmic rocking of the train. His eyes are lowered, not out of drowsiness, but more so out of the same post-meal contentment that Dream feels looking at him. They are unfocused, looking at Dream, but still his mouth runs to keep the conversation going - as if it can’t bear the silence even with Ink’s thinking to fill it.
“He’ll be fine. He’s an old, old man like the rest of us, and he’s gotten more sturdy throughout the years.” Ink snickers, thinking of Error hobbling around with a hunchback and a white beard. Dream seems to instinctively know what he’s thinking of and glowers, but without any real exasperation or intent other than “I know what you’re thinking about.” Ink sticks his tongue out and closes his eyes, before continuing his absentminded train of thought.
“You could say it’s better than feeling any of it all. I mean, he’s got a lot of stuff going on that he probably doesn’t even react to anymore. He’s been on his own for a while before he met us, and even in all the time we’ve known him, he’s only begun to feel less and less of his pain. Shouldn’t…” Ink’s mouth hesitates, and the words suddenly cramp in his throat, and his mind twists as he wonders if what he’s going to say is mean or rude and how Dream might react. His brows, unknowingly, pinch together and lower on his head as his eyes open again to peer down at the shiny metal reflection of himself on the teapot. “Shouldn’t we be happy that he, at least, won’t be in pain?”
Dream’s mouth presses into a thin line and he averts his eyes to the window, past his thin reflection and out at the passing trees and buildings. The night casts a blanket of darkness over everyone, but the stars are still out and the clouds have only just begun to set in. There are thousands of little houses with ‘tiny stories hiding in them’, as Ink says, and somewhere in the sea of cabins and past the winding veins of roads, there is a child being put to bed.
However, Dream’s mind catches up to the other train of thought that makes his chest constrict in a dull ache. He opens his mouth, but closes it with a quiet click. Ink is looking at him now, through the reflection of the window, and they meet eyes through the glass. “I… suppose so. Even if we all continue to live on for another century, that would mean he’d gradually lose those feelings, but…” Dream looks away from Ink’s visage and at the landscape.
“If he were hurt, would he know? How would he be able to tell when he has a wound, or when something has caught him in the chest, or - or when the water’s been boiled too hot for his bath, or when he is too close to the fire-” “Dream, it’s going to be okay.”
The two of them lapse into a period of silence where there’s only the sound of clinking metal on metal and liquid filling grateful, open cups like dry palms to the rain. Dream sips at his chamomile and takes a deep breath, letting the smell of the tea straighten out his jumbled mess of a mind.
“I’m… I’m sorry, Ink, I just… I can’t help but think a lot.” He tends to fall into these ruts every now and then, when Nightmare isn’t pressed to his side or at least in the same room. Dream runs a thumb over the golden ring resting on his finger, over its ridges - rounded by years of worrying from its bearer. He feels guilty for being so dependent on his brother, because it worries Nightmare to be away from him and he isn’t as bad now, but he knows that his brother needs space sometimes.
He worries that people won't return when they leave the room. He worries that when he looks away from someone, they won't be there when he calls their name. He worries about all of them, actually, when they're gone. Even if they're just in the other room.
Ink squirms out of the seat across from Dream and onto the side where Dream’s sitting. Dream squeaks a bit when Ink flops onto his back and his head falls into Dream’s lap. His legs stick out of the booth and into the aisle, but he seems to be the most comfortable man in the world. Dream sighs, and then smiles down at him, where Ink’s feigned innocence exudes triumph at having caught Dream’s attention. The contentment wells up again, but Dream has no choice but to let it melt away the anxiety that grows in him.
“The war is over, Dream.” Ink’s hand falls into his own, brushing a thumb against the ring on Dream’s finger to intertwine his digits with his own. Their rings click against one another, and Dream’s throat closes up a bit. He can’t help but notice every brush their hands have when the train jostles a bit, or when Ink’s head trembles a little with the vibrations of the tracks, or the way that Ink’s expression loosens a bit into carefree joy that Dream can feel pouring out of him. Dream is the one to hide, now, closing his eyes and letting his shoulders loosen with another deep breath.
“I know,” he hoarsely replies. “I know.”
Ink squeezes his hand, and Dream falls against the seat of the booth, his head bouncing against the soft cushion.